First Sight
by inatrice
Summary: Sherlock is picked up at a crime scene by Lestrade. He leaves with a few more questions than when he arrived.


Sherlock stared out of the office window, sitting all folded up in the chair in front of the large wooden desk. He fiddled with his recently recovered mobile, gnawing at his lip unconsciously. He really shouldn't be this nervous. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, he didn't get nervous. But this officer…

"All right, lad." The officer said as he came back into the office. His voice. Christ his voice was smooth. Sherlock could hear a tinge of tiredness to it. He supposed it was nearly 5 in the morning. The officer sat opposite him at the desk, running his hands over his face. Sherlock could see the beginnings of gray in his hair, slight crinkles around his eyes and in his forehead. The shirt was two days worn, trousers unironed. This could either be the cause of the trouble with the wife or because of the trouble with the wife.

"Well, you're getting off nearly scott free." The officer said finally. "DI said he got a call from someone and that we are to sign you up for some time in a state rehab center."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was how father was punishing him? A state run center? He pushed away the unpleasant thoughts and fixed his eyes on the officer's hands as the other man continued to talk. Christ those fingers. His mind lead him to a darkened room with the officer pushing him down on a bed, those fingers shoved up inside of him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to the officer's and he vaguely wondered why the drugs were still having such an impact on his subconscious.

"That's your name right?" The office asked. "Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock went to speak but found his throat dry. He opted for nodding.

"Well, I'm to take you home. Your mysterious savior said to make sure you had an escort so you wouldn't run off again." The officer stood and walked around the desk. He held out a hand, but Sherlock ignored it. He unfolded himself and immediately his knees buckled. He mentally cursed himself for being so careless with the amount he'd taken tonight.

"Whoa!" The officer grabbed him before he ended up on the floor. "You sure you don't need to go to the hospital?"

"I told you I'm fine. It's all nearly out of my system." Which was a lie, but he could handle it. What was more disconcerting was the warmth of the officer's hands on his arm. He gazed down where their bodies met and glared.

"Sorry. 'S just tryna help." The officer said awkwardly, removing his hands and holding them up in surrender.

Sherlock sniffed, righted himself, pulled his shirt taught and headed out the door of the office without waiting for the other man.

The drive, which was very much _not_ to Sherlock's flat but instead to Mycroft's, comprised of the officer rambling on about the case that Sherlock had invaded. Sherlock was genuinely surprised that the officer was willing to talk about it. And for once he didn't mind sitting silently and just listening.

"The boys at the Yard said you were completely right," The officer said, sounding awed. "High as a kite and able to dissect a crime scene like that?" he scoffed and glanced over and gave Sherlock a toothy grin. Sherlock liked that grin. It stirred something inside of him. "That's impressive that is."

Sherlock looked down at his hands. He wasn't used to being complimented. "Thank you." He said quietly.

It was then they pulled up to Mycroft's flat, the chubby elder Holmes standing by the street, feigning concern. Sherlock sighed heavily and prepared for a lecture that he was going to ignore.

The officer got out of the vehicle and Mycroft went up to him to thank him. Sherlock eyed him closely.

"Thank you so very much, officer …"

"Lestrade," The other man said, taking Mycroft's outstretched hand. "Greg Lestrade."

Mycroft gave him what was supposed to be a genuine smile, but Sherlock knew better. Mycroft didn't do genuine with those he didn't know. With another glance, Sherlock could see the lingering gazes. A slight possessiveness bloomed in him. He paused in his walk to the door. Why would he have even an inkling of possessiveness?

"Sherlock," His brother called in his typical motherly tone. "You didn't thank the officer for going above and beyond his duty."

Sherlock took in a deep breath and rolled his eyes. God damn his brother, merely trying to impress the nice police officer. His face went slack. Had his brother somehow noticed he'd been having ridiculous thoughts about the other man?

"Thank you, sir." He called over his shoulder. "Your hard work is truly a blessing unto the city." He continued inside, ignoring Mycroft's dissatisfied call after him. He went straight into Mycroft's room. If he was spending the night here, he sure as hell wouldn't be spending it on the couch. He locked the door behind him after making sure he had the key in his hand. Mycroft's bedroom was simple, yet alluded to money and elegance. It was clean, rather too clean for Sherlock's taste, but he wouldn't be here long.

He flopped onto the bed and closed his eyes as he heard pounding on the door. But his thoughts were following a police cruiser as it drove back to New Scotland Yard. Sherlock closed his eyes and thought about the officer, Lestrade. Yes Lestrade. His mind raced back to his thoughts in Lestrade's office. He was alone now, what harm could indulging really do?

The man's voice was enough to knock him off of the celibate track he'd been keeping, though the thought that so simple a thing was enough infuriated him. Sherlock curled into a ball and groaned miserably. Thinking of the man's voice only led his mind to the ridiculous grin he had. It was much too pleasant. And those lips. He imagined those lips on his bare chest and the man's fingers raking down his side.

Sherlock sighed defeatedly and his hand slid down into his trousers, already planning four different ways to see the officer Lestrade again.


End file.
